


Detail

by 28ghosts



Series: DS9 Rarepairs [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Holodecks/Holosuites, M/M, Post-Canon, awful james bond jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15018047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts
Summary: Felix visits Deep Space Nine.





	Detail

Felix takes notes. When it matters, Felix takes notes.

He takes more scans than he does notes, of course. For the simple things, like coding, it's dimensions that technically matter -- specs down to the micrometer. But sometimes he opens up those scans, and it's just numbers. Numbers can't tell him why he found that one particular shithole Quito bar so charming, or why that one rented room in New Miami had seemed so luxurious. That's why Felix takes notes: there are details that cannot be compressed into numbers.

In that one bar, the way the music is just loud enough you can't eavesdrop, but just loud enough you can't talk to the person next to you without leaning in. Leaning in just a breath past what would be proper, close enough to catch the scent of cologne or perfume or pheromones or what-have-you. In that one hotel, the way nothing seems new. Maybe nothing seems old or worn down, either, but the room feels like it's always been there. Waiting for you. A carpet soft in a way that makes you think it's always been soft and will be soft forever, no matter how many guests find themselves pushed down against it.

Seventeen hours-by-Earth before Felix's shuttle had arrived on Deep Space Nine, Julian Bashir had messaged him over subspace: _Change in plans -- won't be able to meet you at the docking bay -- so sorry, will give you details inasmuch as they're not illegal -- best --_.

Even though Felix would likely be arriving around the same time as his reply, he'd written back: _Understood -- can't wait_.

Arriving on DS9, Felix takes his time. First in threading through the crowds as he exits the shuttle. Felix has always been an obsessive, and this visit will be no exception. He checks a terminal for his room assignment, and when he scans his palm at the door to his quarters, he lingers in the entryway, noticing everything he notices at first glance. The wall-to-wall carpet that dampens station vibrations, the yellow-whiteness of the overhead lights, the Bajoran plants nestled into the walls. The texture of his suitcase under his fingertips; the slightly stale dryness of the air; the way the room feels expansive after days on a shuttle.

He strokes the leaves of the plant, noting the moisture in the soil, the strange velvet catch to the underside of the bloom’s petals. Touch -- such an evocative thing; attention must be paid.

It has been a long time since he’s seen Julian Bashir. What new details await him? What new quirks of speech and strange new mannerisms?

The room is small, and Felix has brought with him perhaps more than necessary. He doesn't, though, bother unpacking more than a change of clothes. When he asks, the computer gives him the time and the fact that he has no unread messages. Julian, then, must still be on shift. Felix takes a longer sonic shower than he needs to, and he heads for the Promenade.

Julian had tried to describe the Promenade to him once, in a letter, only because Felix had asked him to. The details someone mentions are always so revealing.

They tell more about the observer than the observed, see. Julian, for instance, had mentioned the storefronts and the places where the flow of foot traffic got congested. The places he had to avoid to keep from getting run into by wanderers with less regard for personal space, the alcoves one could retreat to so as to catch one’s breath. The muted colors of the storefronts; the shadows and stabs of light through the viewdecks; the arching Cardassian architecture, so alien to a Human eye. Nothing, though, of the way the high ceilings caught and diffused noise into an ambient background hum, or the way that if you stood still long enough, you could feel the gentle movement of the station rumbling through the soles of your boots. And that’s what Felix notices, standing stock-still in the middle of a walkway, letting other sentients stream around him.

That’s what makes Felix good at what he does. People have a tendency to forget the constants in their lives, but Felix is obsessed with those things. They are, after all, what make his programs feel real.

-

Julian meets him in the replimat. Felix has eaten, but Julian hasn’t. Julian eats even faster than he used to at the Academy, though, and so Felix has barely had time to assure Julian that his shuttle ride was uneventful before Julian is bounding up to return his plate to the replicator for recycling. “You haven’t met Quark yet, have you?” Julian says, returning to Felix’s side in just a few absurdly long-legged steps. “I hope you haven’t; I was hoping to introduce you.”

Felix has seen the new Starfleet uniforms, of course, on Earth and in transit and on the station while waiting to see Julian. They're fine, he figures, and hadn't thought of them much. But to see Julian in one is different. His shoulders look broader and his waist narrower. How urgent was the emergency Julian had been attending to? Had it gone well or poorly? When was the last time he'd slept? All this, Felix wonders.

“Lead on,” says Felix, and as always, Julian does.

-

They order their drinks the moment they sit, the bartender immediately across from them. It’s hardly a minute before he returns with ale (for Julian) and a Sumarian Sunset (for Felix) balanced neatly on a tray held in one hand. “Always a pleasure, doctor,” says the bartender to Julian, and then jerks his head towards Felix. “Who’s your friend?”

“Felix Kubala,” says Felix, interrupting. “Pleased to meet you.”

The Ferengi bartender looks him over with new attention. “Oh, so this is Felix, huh? I suppose I have you to thank for Dr. Bashir here being my best holosuite customer five years running.” He jabs Felix’s drink towards him on ‘you,’ and it just barely doesn’t slosh onto the counter.

Felix doesn’t fight the overly pleased grin he can feel creeping over his face. He leans in towards the bartender, reaching for his drink without looking at it, feeling at the glass as if he expects the trickle of foam to slick his fingers. Because _there’s_ a detail he’s programmed into every bar program he’s ever written, an even more common trope than the sleazy bartender. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” says the bartender. His eyes narrow as his gaze flicks to Julian, then back to Felix; he’s distrustful, but he does, Felix knows, own the holosuites. And so the bartender primly extends one hand in greeting. “The name’s Quark. And this is Quark’s; I own it.”

Felix shakes Quark’s hand briefly. “An honor to meet you.”

Quark’s skepticism is magnificent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, pal, but I don’t trust you.”

And so Felix swings his stare over to Julian, who’s fighting a smile even as he doesn’t meet Felix’s eyes. Julian’s gaze is cast more towards the back wall of alien liquors and liqueurs, and it gives Felix an idea. “Perhaps Dr. Bashir has never mentioned it,” he says gravely.

Julian doesn’t know the details of the game, but Julian knows the arc of the game itself -- Felix’s programs have trained him well, at least, to follow along with any sufficiently leading suggestion, so long as he trusts the person who offers it. “Well, Felix, you know how I am...” Julian says. And finally, he rolls his stare over; his grin is easy and lazy and entirely affected. “I do keep secrets so well.”

Felix rolls his eyes to ignore the jump in his gut. “I never would have trusted you so much if I hadn’t known that,” he says.

He isn’t entirely sure if Julian will respond of his own accord, but the bartender Quark evidently cannot hold his tongue. “Really, Mister…”

Felix tips his glass in his hand and watches the orange and red curl. He takes a slow drink, not looking away from the bartender’s wary expression. “Felix is just fine,” he says.

“Well, pleased to make your acquaintance,” says Quark, with no conviction. “I am, as you’ve gathered, the proprietor of not only this establishment but also any establishment worth frequenting on the station.”

“I have gathered,” says Felix. “You know a holoprogrammer keeps crash logs, I assume.”

“If this is about any bootlegging of programs, I can assure you—”

“No, no, you misunderstand,” Felix says. “I review crash logs, we all do — I must compliment you on your safety measures here. You outpace almost every Federation holosuite my programs are run on... Between my friend's mentions of you...” He hears Julian laugh into his drink; perhaps he's being a _trifle_ effusive, but so be it. "I'm well aware of who you are," Felix finishes.

Quark stares at him. "Really."

Felix shrugs and drinks. It's not bad for synthehol -- cloying, perhaps, but not bitter. "Yes, my friend."

"And how did you meet Dr. Bashir? I don't suppose it was--"

The bartender's tone is ironic, which Felix doesn't appreciate. “Dr. Bashir helped me overhaul the Starfleet Medical Academy training programs,” he interrupts. “Actually, my career is thanks to him entirely. Imagine..." He leans in. "It's 2365. I’ve been writing the same tired erotic holoprograms for a decade.”

A blatant lie. He had been working the training program circuit for near a decade when one of the Starfleet Medical deans had asked Felix to update their training programs. Julian had been assigned as an assistant for nearly a month, and, well -- as if anyone Julian ever properly charmed could let him go after that, Felix thinks.

“Like it or not, those are the only reason my holosuites turn a profit, so you could show a little more respect,” Quark grouses. But it’s obvious the Ferengi likes a good story — he’s leaning in a little, conspiratorial.

“It’s true,” corroborates Julian, with an entirely conjured-up air of embarrassment. “What was the last title you’d ghost-written?”

Felix takes another too-long draught; he knows Julian’s tastes, including his sense of humor. “At this point, you know it better than I.”

He does notice the quick-caught intake of breath; Julian’s tell of genuine amusement. Felix knows that well. His programs — and their logs — catch onto these things. “It doesn’t bear repeating in polite company,” Julian says.

“Doctor, if you think I’m polite company, I have a house discount to rescind,” says Quark, delicately outraged.

“Agent 69,” Felix offers as a prompt, straight-faced as can be.

Julian nearly cracks, but he controls himself at the last moment — “Casino Voyeur,” he says. And then a gulp of his drink as he stares resolutely at the colored bottles against the wall. And, escalating perfectly, “You had a whole series of those, didn’t you?”

“Lay and Let Lie,” Felix says, mock-wistful. “Which was the one in Switzerland? With the wedding?”

He can all but hear Julian rifling through possibilities. “Her Majesty’s Secret Lip Service,” Julian says; not the finest fake holo-erotic title he’s ever pulled out of thin air to mess with someone, but for a moment his lips are pressed into a thin line, and if Felix didn’t know better, he’d think Julian was genuinely grimly remembering something he didn’t care to. “Really, Quark, all of them were quite good. James Bond riffs, you know.”

“I’d caught onto that, yes,” says the bartender.

“I liked most of them. Not all of them were written for humanoid specifications, but that never stopped me — I was a bit of a connoisseur, you remember.”

Felix nods. “Shame they’re all out of circulation.”

“Every single one of them. Destroyed,” Julian says.

“There were some you didn’t like,” Felix prompts.

“Just — some of the more alien ones… No offense, Quark.”

“None taken,” says Quark.

“You know,” Julian says. His fist is clenched on the table, and he makes it halfway through saying “Octopussy” before he collapses into laughter, forehead bowed towards the countertop, and Felix is so fond he can barely breathe.

The bartender rolls his eyes and leaves them to their drinks.

“Out of all the wonders in the world,” Felix says, as Julian is trying to control himself, “all the marvels in space I’ve seen — all the planets I’ve been to, all the cultures I’ve been invited to observe — still, the most incredible thing is that in 1966, on Earth…”

Julian mutters something into his hands.

“An author named Ian Fleming actually published a book called Octopussy—”

Julian dissolves again, face hidden in his hands, shoulders shaking like he’s sobbing. The cocktail must be getting to Felix because he risks throwing an arm over his friend’s shoulders. He’s rewarded with Julian slumping against him, still laughing to himself. “My face hurts,” Julian complains. “Prophets.”

“Octoprophets,” Felix deadpans, and it’s not funny at all, but Julian still laughs for some reason.

He drops his arm. Julian stays leaned up against him for a long moment before pulling himself away back to his drink, which he promptly drains. “It’s even worse than Goldfinger,” he says to himself.

Felix drains his glass, too. He still can’t really stand the whole James Bond aesthetic, but it’s always been pleasant enough to pretend at seeing it through Julian’s eyes. The straight-facedness and absurdity all at once. The ridiculous names and gadgets. One man taking a stand and making a difference. All of it so hard to seriously.

-

Hours and split drinks of Romulan ale and Cardassian kanar and Human whiskey later:

“Did you know?”

Felix is, somehow, drunk enough to not know what Julian means, at least for long enough that Julian’s expression seems to curdle. Felix, at least, is staggering back to his quarters. His vision swims in triplicate. It’s hard to tell how sober or hammered Julian is.

“If you figured it out,” Julian starts, “and didn’t--”

And Felix staggers sideways and clasps him by the shoulder, leaning on his younger friend unrepentantly. As Julian always does, he forgets his resentment long enough to help someone in need. Meaning slips quick into Felix’s head.

“Of fucking course I didn’t, you idiot,” he says.

Leaning on Julian as he is, he’s close enough to hear Julian hiss in through his teeth.

“Of fucking course I didn’t. Like fuck you’d’ve let me close enough if you thought I had.”

“Oof,” says Julian. Maybe not in response to Felix leaning on him. Hard to know.

“Whole conversation we could have here,” Felix says, gesturing with his free arm. “It would go badly.”

He’s too drunk to really control what he’s saying, but Julian and his damned Augment metabolism seem much more steady than is quite fair. “Quite possibly,” Julian grants.

“Not because of me,” says Felix. And he slows. He makes Julian slow alongside him, what with his arm thrown around Julian’s shoulders and all. “Not because of me.”

And it’s too quietly that Julian says, “I know.”

They stand still in an empty corridor for just a little too long. No one else around. Just the nighttime environmental controls and a slight hum that Felix tells himself he’s categorizing.

“You tell good lies,” Julian eventually says, fondly.

It’s Felix to try and step forward, braced against Julian’s long, steady form. “I try,” he admits.

Julian’s head knocks against his; who it was to lean in, well, that’s one detail Felix will never know.

-

The gruesome details that Julian fills him in on, with regards to his missed welcoming of Felix at the shuttle bay: too grim for Felix to dwell upon.

Julian makes his apologies for everything — the tardiness, his, quote, maudlin indulgences the previous night. Hunched over his hangover breakfast of plain replicated Terran eggs and bacon, Felix shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to justify to me,” he says.

And Julian sneers, arms crossed over his chest, but it’s directed at himself. “It went fine,” he says to no one, referring to the operation. A Cardassian baby girl, barely an Earth year old, with a genetic disorder, no doubt invoked by the radiation blanketing her home planet. “She’ll survive. She’ll -- she’ll survive.”

Felix has never been able to tell replicated food from what other people call the real thing. If it fills your stomach, it fills your stomach. “You saved her life,” he says.

Julian nods. “Yes,” he says, distracted.

Augments must not get hangovers; typical.

-

He hasn’t told Julian yet. What’s holding him back, he doesn’t know, but he catalogues all of it, if never to his padd: the way Julian is hesitant inviting him to dinner in the replimat that second night that Felix is on the station. The way that when Felix suggests his own quarters, Julian is relieved.

The way when he runs into Commander Kira on the observation deck, on his third day there -- her openness, her glow, it reminds him of Julian when Felix first met him.

“I’m glad you made it,” she says after a certain period of them feeling each other out, realizing they at least don’t mistrust each other. “Dr. Bashir speaks quite highly of you.”

“I could say the same,” Felix says. “And I will, in fact -- Julian speaks quite highly of you.”

The commander’s laugh is short and barking; her eyes light up with real amusement. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she says. She sounds it. Glad, that is. Details, details that Felix finds hard to care so much about, after just half a handful of nights. “Hard to imagine your accepting a post this far away from Earth if he’d not, though.”

Felix cocks his head towards the wormhole. He sees the outline of his own reflection in the viewscreen, like a ghost. “You know, I still haven’t told him.”

The wormhole pulses with a little light, but nothing more than that. The commander whistles to herself, low and considering. “Julian really has a type,” she says.

Felix knows himself too well than to fool himself into believing he could bear the details on this particular matter.

-

His fourth day Julian has off, and so Julian helps Felix parsing through the holosuite logs. Felix gets their compressed versions transmitted to Earth, of course, but it’s different, getting the logs, reading them in the actual equipment. He hadn’t _entirely_ lied to Quark, after all. DS9’s holosuites are safer than average. No small accomplishment, given the station’s patched-together circuitries.

“Miles used to complain about that all the time,” Julian says, isolinear cards stacked in neat piles between his sprawled-out legs. Felix is hunched over an access panel, inspecting the retrofitted-by-the-Federation-but-originally-Cardassian failsafes. “Said when he got here, he worried about the holosuites more than he needed to.” Julian laughs to himself. “Miles used to work on the Enterprise, you know! And the holos there…”

“I’ve heard,” Felix says, into the wall, solemnly, and Julian laughs not just to himself this time.

It’s hard, now, to remember Julian as the too-quick-tongued, over-eager medical student who’d come to Felix’s office with padds stacked high with ideas and criticisms.

Even then, he’d had the sort of eye for medical detail that seemed unnatural. Knowing now that it’s unnatural — it doesn’t matter at all.

-

Hard not to remember a bar where it was a little too loud. A hotel a little too old.

-

A few station days later, over drinks in Felix's quarters, Julian asks haltingly how long it is until Felix leaves. "I don't want you to get sick of me long as you're here," he says. "But while you're here... I _do_ want to be a good host. Bit hard to tread that line, being attentive but not taking too much of your time." A beat. "I know you've surely got research to do."

Felix lets himself take an indulgent moment before answering. "A few months, I think, before I leave," he says. “I submitted that proposal you sent me to overhaul the emergency medicine training programs. Starfleet agreed.”

A long, long silence. When he risks glancing back at Julian, he sees his friend stifling some expression. “Nothing like finally looking at the casualty lists to see I had a point," Julian says to himself.

Felix shrugs, though Julian isn't looking at him.

Maybe Julian's even right. How long has he been this miserable? Does he even notice it anymore?

“Which is to say, don’t worry about imposing.” He only has to reach an arm's length away to grab and then open up the case he's carried with him across the galaxy, lined with felt, where there’s half a dozen datarods. “You won’t have enough time to play host -- I’ve brought some personal work as well, and I’ll need your help.”

Personal work meaning: commercial work. Spy stories, porn, mysteries.

Julian’s eyes light up. “I have always loved beta testing these,” he says, looking charmingly embarrassed to admit it.

“I’ll need more help than that, I’m afraid. There’s more demand than you can imagine for a hospital dating program, and I just don’t have the background…I don’t suppose you’d be interested in co-authoring a little something.”

“Repurposing the environments from the emergency sims, no doubt. Nothing more romantic,” Julian says, self-conscious. But there’s delight in his voice.

Julian has no way to know it, but it’s not the case at all. There’s demand, yes, but nothing Felix wouldn’t be capable of authoring his own, given half a week in a Terran hospital.

But Felix notices the way Julian’s smile makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle more than it used to, the way the circles under his eyes are deeper. The way it’s only just now that Julian’s shoulders seem to be easing from military set, the way his civilian clothes look awkward on him, the way Julian’s gaze keeps flicking back to the holorods. The way Julian seems all too eager to lean into a challenge that doesn’t involve life or death.

Felix notices it all.


End file.
